Acquaintances
by ViennaSunset
Summary: A series of one-shots about Molly and Sherlock. Ranging from when they first meet to little conversations and situations they end up in. Friendship with glitters of Sherlolly. Prompts welcome.
1. Meet

**So instead of doing another multi-chaptered story, I thought I'd keep my muse going with some little Molly/Sherlock one-shots. Nothing special, just something to tide me over. This one came from the idea of Molly meeting Sherlock. I always found it nice that we don't know how or why they met. Here's my take.**

**Tried to keep it in character. No out and out Sherlolly, though. Just glitters of it.**

**Enjoy. **

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><p><strong>M E E T<strong>

It took Molly fifty two seconds to notice there was a man present in the room with her. She was hunched over a body, scalpel prodding and slicing as she hummed to herself. She leant over for a pair of pliers and her peripheral vision caught sight of a dark blur. With a scream and a flail she sent her sheath of medical instruments cascading across the tiled floor, the most almighty of sounds echoing through the lab. The man standing there didn't move to help her, neither did he jump. He simply peeled off his leather gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his sharp black coat.

She'd never seen him before; she was sure she couldn't have missed a man so interesting looking. He stood at about six feet tall with dark brown curls falling down by his ears. He dressed smartly, a deep purple shirt and black blazer just visible above the collar of his coat. His face was sharp; cheekbones and nose carved into his skin. He had very striking blue eyes. Molly took a deep breath, calming down from the shock.

"Sorry." She said in a small voice, "You scared me."

"It's quite alright." He answered, looking around the morgue, his icy eyes scanning each and every detail of it. Molly realised she'd apologised when she'd done nothing wrong, and he'd just taken that apology as though it was needed in the first place. Who the bloody hell was he anyway? _He _should be the one apologising. Molly was about to say something along these lines but, when she finally came to from her thoughts the man was a lot closer, almost touching her, his hand holding out a silver scalpel.

All need to say anything melted and Molly gratefully took it from him. His blue eyes met hers for the briefest of seconds.

"Thank you." She said, hoping he wouldn't notice that her voice was quivering.

"You're welcome, Molly."

She sunk to her knees collecting together all the instruments, her hand fumbling blindly under the slab for an elusive suturing needle. He didn't move to assist her. At the exact moment she realised he'd just said her name she felt something stab her in the hand. Whipping her hand straight to her mouth she stood back upright, sucking at the blood which the needle had left. Hair dishevelled, she looked with a perplexed expression back at this man.  
>"Do I know you?" she asked almost sternly. Well, as stern as you could get with a bleeding hand in your mouth. The man's mouth twitched to the side; it was almost a lopsided smile, but the distinct lack of eyebrow movement said otherwise.<p>

"I don't believe so." He replied smartly, walking forward. "Hold out your hand."

"How do you know my name, then?"

He didn't respond to that, but this time he did smile. To himself, naturally, as he looked at Molly's hand. His forefinger was pushing down on the small pinprick on her hand.

"Don't suck it. Pressure." The words left his mouth like honey running down a knife. If he wasn't so simple in expression she could've sworn he was trying to be seductive. She almost melted into a puddle by the way his tongue clicked on the word 'suck'. He spoke again, this time sternly, snapping her from her fantasy, "Put pressure on it otherwise it won't stop bleeding."

"Yes, thank you." She said, whipping her hand back as she pressed her fingers against it. "You didn't answer my question."

"I need to use the lab." He said, peeling off his coat and blazer in one movement. His purple shirt contrasted amazingly with the darkness of his hair and the porcelain quality of his skin. He hung his coat ceremoniously on the back of a stool and began collecting pieces of equipment from the lab counter.

"Are you a doctor here?" Molly asked a little more brazenly. He couldn't just waltz in here and commandeer the bloody place no matter how chiselled his face was or how smooth his voice sounded. She had work to do and he couldn't just march in here and put a stop to it.

"No." He answered simply, still collecting Petri dishes from the shelf.

"Then you can't use the lab." She retorted, sniffing indignantly as she crossed her arms. Her confidence was soon shattered as this man ignored her completely, suddenly looking through her collection of scalpels before choosing one to add to his collection of equipment.

"Would you be a dear and fetch me a beaker of ethanol?" He turned to her swiftly, a cocky edge to the way he spoke, "I don't have a pass to get into any of the rooms."  
>Molly could hardly utter a word. The pretention and confidence of this man had rendered her speechless. Who did he think he was?<p>

"These labs…a-are booked in advance." She stammered, trying to thrust her point at the man, falling over every word she said, "Y-you need a pass to get in and you n-need to be a doctor and…"

"No I don't."

"What?"

"I don't need to be a doctor to get in here. I'm here aren't I?" The man moved closer to her, observing the gentle rise and fall of her chest speed up as he neared. She wasn't scared of him, he could tell this by the fact she didn't shy away. She remained still, her eyes flicking up to him when he was as close as he felt comfortable.

"Who _are_ you?" She asked simply, her voice merely marred with the smallest drops of anger. He decided he should probably answer her question this time.

"I'm a detective."

"You're a policeman?"

"No." He rolled his eyes, "Consulting detective."

"What's that?"  
>"A detective whom people consult." He narrowed his eyes, "Anything else, Ms Hooper, or may I use the lab?"<p>

There was a pang as she realised he knew both her names. She eyed him carefully, suspicion rising within her pupils.

"What's your name?" Molly breathed, suddenly aware that he was standing _very_ close indeed. Her lab coat was sweeping against his legs.

"Sherlock Holmes."

_An eccentric man with an eccentric name,_ she thought,_ seems legitimate._ His eyes seemed to see right past hers, right into her mind, as though he was reading her like a book. He swallowed and she noticed the sharp rise of his Adam's apple within his throat. She was aware she was probably an unattractive shade of pink. He was close enough that she could smell the stain of mint on his breath, but not quite feel its warmness on her nose. It was really quite bizarre. She didn't like him, but he interested her all in the same token. She didn't quite understand it. He was arrogant and impolite, but he had helped her with her wound and he had picked up her scalpel. And he had nice eyes.

"Your eyes are orange in this light." He mentioned, his blue eyes penetrating hers. "They looked brown from far away."

She'd never had somebody analyse her eyes; truth be told nobody had been this near to her eyes in a while.  
>"They look nice." He said this slowly, his tongue tracing over his bottom lip. Then, without warning he sunk dangerously slowly towards the floor. His head perfectly parallel to her body, not saying a word. Down he went, and she breathed an awkward breath as he crouched down by her feet. When he rose back up to meet her he held before their faces a large suture needle, glittering in the light. She plucked it from his hand, holding it between her forefinger and thumb.<p>

"Thank you." She managed.

"I don't mean to cause alarm, but my use of the lab could mean life or death for one sorry individual within oh, let me see," he flicked his wrist around and eyed his watch, "the next twenty minutes."

Molly let out a small, surprised, 'oh'.

"So am I allowed one brief use of your lab, Ms Hooper?" He cast an eye over at the corpse still lying on the slab, "I'm sure this gentleman won't mind, will you sir?" Obvious silence. "See?"

Molly placed the needle on the slab and sighed, shaking her head. What could she do? She couldn't trust him, but then again, if he was telling the truth then the blood of some poor bugger would be on her hands. She pulled the white sheet over the body she was working on.

"Just this once, Mr Holmes." She warned, "Twenty minutes."

Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss firmly to her cheek, excitedly collecting her collection of scalpels from the table.  
>"Not a second more." He promised, rushing to various parts of the lab, collecting an assortment of beakers. Molly pressed the back of her hand to her flushed cheek where he'd kissed her. She hastened towards the door and picked up her bag. She could grab a cup of coffee in those twenty minutes. Before she left she stood at the doorway watching this strange man dash about the lab excitedly pouring different mixtures into different beakers while his free hand clicked on a computer.<p>

"Did you want anything?" She asked politely before she left.

"Peace, would be nice." He said smoothly, if not rather rudely. Molly's brow knitted together. Thank God she was a patient woman. She was about to turn around and leave when she remembered something.  
>"How <em>did<em> you know my name?"

The man stopped what he was doing and cocked his head.

"You really don't know?" He almost smirked it, "I thought it was blindingly obvious."  
>"Maybe I'm not as smart as you."<p>

"That's a given." He mumbled, "I'm a detective, remember. I can work these things out."

"How?"  
>"I have fifteen minutes to save a life, Ms Hooper." He reminded her, this time with a more polite edge to his manner. Molly nodded.<br>"Oh yes, of course." She turned to leave, "Sorry."

Yet again, Molly Hooper had said sorry to this man when she'd done nothing wrong. As she marched down the corridor towards the coffee machine she shook her head to herself. Silly girl; letting a total stranger into a restricted premises because he'd complimented her eyes. How pathetic was that? She hoped that when she got back all her equipment would still be there. As she searched through her bag for purse her eyes happened upon her ID card clipped to her lab coat. Her name was emblazoned up it in red writing with a large picture of her smiling a toothy grin on it. She almost laughed.

_Blindingly obvious_, she thought, _well played Mr Holmes._

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><p><em><em>**By all means review. I'm open to suggestions too. I like prompts and stuff.**


	2. Lestrade

**Here Sherlock introduces Molly to Lestrade and Lestrade to Molly. Sherlock is still commandeering the lab and Molly still thinks he's an arrogant arse (albeit with nice cheekbones).**

**Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>L E S T R A D E<strong>

She'd almost forgotten about Sherlock Holmes until he came sweeping back into her lab three weeks later, his long coat swooping around him like a cape. This time however, he was accompanied by a rather tanned silver haired man who was hot on his heels.

"You better not be bloody messing me about, Sherlock." The silver haired man barked, his eyes glittering when he saw Molly Hooper stand up from her stool.

"Ah Molly." Sherlock unwound his scarf from his neck, greeting Molly as though he'd known her from time of old. He spoke with a grave tone of insincerity, "Always nice to see a familiar face."

"You?" The words left her mouth with accidental abruptness, her hands snapping shut the folder she'd been working on. Sherlock's eyes flicked up at her, their iciness penetrating her skin. His mouth twitched.

"You two know each other?" The shorter tanned man questioned, looking between them.

"Lestrade, this is Molly Hooper." Sherlock waved a hand at the young doctor, not looking up from the computer which he was now fervently tapping away on.

"Pleasure." The man smiled warmly at Molly then rounded on Sherlock, "What did you say you'd found?"

"Excuse me?" Molly coughed, standing rooted to her position, "That's hospital property."

As a newly graduated doctor and a new addition to the team at St Barts she didn't feel wholly comfortable allowing two perfect strangers to march into her lab and start fiddling about with the computers. She'd been lucky enough to get a job at this hospital in the first place and she didn't appreciate these two barging in jeopardising it all.

"Oh do excuse me, sweetheart." The silver haired man rooted about in his pocket, before pulling out a warrant card, "DI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I spoke to the receptionist downstairs."

"Oh." Molly managed, her eyes skimming over the warrant card before fiddling with her lab coat awkwardly. She couldn't really argue with a Detective Inspector. She looked over at the man on the computer. "You said you weren't a police officer."

"I'm not." He retorted not tearing his eyes away from the screen. Molly looked towards Lestrade with confusion.

"He's not." He agreed, "He just helps out from time to time."  
>Sherlock let out a small, smug laugh before pressing his finger to the screen. "See." Sherlock redirected Lestrade back to the case and sniffed, "Now go an arrest him."<p>

The detective inspector sighed gruffly and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Why do you always have to be right?" Lestrade groaned.

"It's my job." Sherlock sighed nonchalantly, "Come on now, time is of the essence."

With that DI Lestrade marched out the door, nodding a swift goodbye to Molly Hooper as her eyes swept back to Sherlock who was logging off the computer.

"Scotland Yard come to you for help?" She asked, moving to the other side of the table.

"Yes." He answered simply, standing up. A small smile pleated her face.

"That's quite something."

"Yes." He repeated. His eyes cast over her as he fiddled with his scarf. It should have been smug, but he said it with an air of modesty, as though he didn't realise how truly remarkable that is. Molly chewed on her bottom lip. An awkward silence hung between them before Sherlock turned swiftly towards the door, without so much as a goodbye.  
>"I worked it out you know." Molly called after him. She was shocked to see him stop at the door, pivoting on his heel to study her with his feline eyes yet again. A small smirk echoed across his lips.<p>

"Oh?" His voice was like gravel, "Worked what out?"  
>The smile he gave her told her he knew full well what.<p>

"My name." She said confidently, "You looked at my name badge."

"As I said I'm a detective."

"Yes, and that's cheating." She added cheekily. After the words left her mouth she regretted it; she really didn't know this man well enough to begin joking with him.

"That's called observing." He corrected her, his tongue swiftly darting across his bottom lip, glossing it over so it shone under the clinical light. Molly suppressed a gulp.

"I'll take your word for it." Molly breathed, momentarily paralysed by his sultry stare. Then in one motion he winked before barrelling through the doors to the lab, leaving the young Molly Hooper silently quivering in her lab coat.

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><p><strong>Thank you for the reviews on the first chapter!<strong>

**Next chapter, Molly and Sherlock discuss the awkward discussion of her dates.**


	3. Dates

**As promised, Sherlock deduces that Molly has a date. He also has a problem with technology. **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>D A T E S<strong>

Soon, Sherlock Holmes was as much a part of the furniture as the mortuary slabs and the scalpels. He'd turn up, uninvited, disrupt Molly's work and commandeer the lab or the morgue for his freshest case. They hardly spoke; every so often she'd offer him a cup of tea which he'd refuse, or he'd ask to borrow a pen. And so was the extent of their conversations.

Molly Hooper would never forget the first proper conversation they had, mostly because it will forever be emblazoned as one of the most embarrassing moments of her life, as well as one of the most surreal.

He was there, at a microscope, one hand feverishly tapping at the computer while it bleeped furiously. Molly packed away her files and untied her hair, letting it fall loosely over her shoulders. She pulled off the lab coat and stood for a moment watching the man impressively handle the microscope and computer at once.

"Aren't you supposed to be going home, Molly?" He broke the silence with that deep voice of his, his eyes not moving from the microscope.

"I was wondering whether you needed a hand with anything before I left."

"No thank you." He replied simply, the clipped edge suggesting he was not thanking her at all. After a final beep from the computer the man pushed aside the microscope, sighing aggressively as he ran a hand down his face, "Nothing!"

"Here, let me have a look." Molly walked over behind the man, leaning over his shoulder, her long hair falling down his suit as she clicked away at the computer. Within seconds the information Sherlock needed was on the screen, his blue eyes widening in excitement before they flicked embarrassedly towards Molly Hooper.

"You're welcome." Molly coaxed, rolling her eyes at his lack of gratitude.  
>"I would have figured that out." He sniffed indifferently, shrugging.<p>

"You might want to think about getting yourself an assistant or a secretary with all this work you have going on." Molly brushed a hand over all the papers pooled over the desk.

"I don't do assistances." Sherlock muttered, "And I certainly wouldn't _do_ secretaries."

Molly blushed at the double entendre, hands wringing together.

Sherlock ran his eyes up her body, before redirecting his attention back to the monitor. He rubbed his fingers together before taking a deep in-breath.

"What time is your date then, Molly?"

The young doctor went to answer, stopping for a beat when she realised she hadn't told anybody about her date. It was nothing special, just one of her old university friends. In all honesty she hadn't really tempted fate by even thinking of it as a date. He was a friend, nice enough, a bit short. She hadn't said anything about it to anyone.

"Your lipstick and perfume." He said from the silence, as though he'd been reading her thoughts. He wasn't looking at her anymore.

"What?" It was the only syllable she could utter in her confusion.

"That particular shade of lipstick; you've never worn it before. The shade; very provocative, racy even." He noted, "And your perfume is floral. Typical, or perhaps subconscious effort to make yourself seem more feminine."

She was sure that hidden somewhere in there was an insult, though she was too shocked to investigate that further.

"You can tell all that from my make-up and perfume?" She asked incredulously. Sherlock's eyes darted back to her, smiling at her disbelief.

"You sell my skills short, Molly."

"No…I just." She paused. She didn't really know how to respond to that. "That's impressive."  
>"Mm." It wasn't really a mumble of agreement, just a murmur of recognition as she spoke.<p>

"You must've gone on a lot of dates to be able to notice all that." Molly said with a hint of sorrow. The detective's brow creased.

"No." He said bluntly.

"Not a dating man, then?" Molly pushed, standing beside him, pretending to be looking at the screen with him. She couldn't see a word on the screen for her mind was too preoccupied trying to find out as much about this man as humanly possible.

"Not particularly." He clicked away, not really paying attention to the woman standing next to him.

"So you haven't…got a girlfriend, then?"

"No." He stopped clicking, quickly adding, "And no, I do not have a boyfriend either."  
>Molly's face flushed a bright red. "No I wasn't implying that…"<br>"Why not?" He looked at her again, "It would have been a reasonable deduction."

Molly now felt uncomfortable. God, why did she have to dig so hard? She should have left then and there, thrown away her spade and left it at that. But words continued to tumble from her mouth without any pause for thought.

"So you're not…married or anything?"

"Why are you asking me all this?" He suddenly snapped. Molly felt her back stiffen at his question. To answer truthfully would be to say, "Because I want to know every little detail about you to see if I stand a chance." Molly Hooper decided this probably wasn't the best response and so, wisely, decided to deviate from the truth a little.

"Because," she started slowly, a million and one cogs turning inside her head, "I like to know who I'm speaking to."

He merely looked at her with those eyes. Those bloody eyes.

"And I'd feel more comfortable knowing more about you, seeing as you already know everything about me."

"Well I'd feel _uncomfortable_ about that." He retorted, looking away.

An awkward pause hung between them, as though they'd never spoken. After a while he spoke.

"I am married, in a sense." He answered quietly. Her heart dropped a little before he added, "To my job."

"Oh." She looked towards the clock. She was supposed to be meeting the man in twenty minutes and she still needed to change.

"You should probably go." Sherlock said suddenly, "You don't want to be late."

"No. I mean, yes…I should go." She answered, stammering. She made her way towards the door, his voice catching her before she left.

"How do I do that thing again?" He was squinting at the computer, frustration etched across his face. Molly sighed and shuffled back over to help him. She leant back over him, guiding the mouse over the page while she clicked away again.

"You really need practice on this computer." She told him. He shrugged like a moody teenager.

"You seem to know what you're doing." He said swiftly, "As long as you're on hand, why should I learn? Learning just pushes the vital things out of the brain."

It was rude, not to mention cheeky. Plus she didn't quite understand the last thing he said. Yet Molly found herself standing behind him, teeth biting at her lip.

She wondered if her friend would might if they postponed their date. She might need to stay late to help out a new colleague.

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><p><strong>The next chapter is my favourite so far! Please stay tuned and thank you for the reviews. Please keep them coming :)<strong>

**Thanks!**


	4. Cigarettes

**Yeah this is probably my favourite so far. Let me know what you think.**

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><p><strong>C I G A R E T T E S<strong>

As she left St Barts on one of February's coldest days, Molly saw him, leaning against a wall, his hands patting down his long coat. A long white cigarette hung from his lips as he fumbled, clearly frustrated, through his pockets. She contemplated walking past him; he wouldn't mind anyway. He wasn't the kind of person to care whether or not she'd ignored him in the street. Likelihood is that he'd probably ignore her if she spoke to him anyway. Nevertheless, Molly Hooper found herself drawing up to him, her hands flexing within her mittens.

"Do you need a light?" She asked from behind him. He spun quickly, eyes trickling over her.

"You don't smoke." He said, cigarette partially muffling his words. Molly opened her bag and, after a few seconds rummaging through the rubbish she'd accumulated since buying the bloody thing, her hand happened upon a box of matches. She shook them at him and he nodded towards the leather gloves which he had on.

"If you wouldn't mind." He said simply. Actually, Molly did mind. She looked at her own mittened hands, sighing. She pulled her gloves off, pushing them into her bag before numbly fumbling for a match.

The scratch as the match struck the side of the box. The warm smell of fire. The beautiful moment when the flame illuminated his face for a second.

He took a long draw, bowed lips tightening around the cigarette before a billow of while smoke leaked from his nostrils and mouth.

"You don't smoke." He repeated, nodding towards the box of matches.

"A woman's bag is full of mysteries." She replied cutely, "I don't even know why they're in there."

"For times like these?" He offered, taking another long, thoughtful drag.

Another silence hung between them as a cloud of smoke swept between their faces.

"Terrible habit." She noted, nodding towards the cigarette.  
>"You <em>did<em> light it for me." He shrugged, "It's like giving someone bullets for a gun then telling them it's wrong to fire it."

He had a point. Then again, Sherlock Holmes always had a point. She nodded submissively.

"It helps me think." He said his eyes running along the line of the cigarette, the bright amber ember at the end casting a burning reflection in his eyes, "A relaxant."

"Meditating works for some people."

He gave her dry look before inhaling again. _No Molly_, she thought, _Sherlock Holmes does not meditate._

"I reasoned cigarettes are better than drugs." He said quickly, "A lot easier to come by."

She couldn't tell whether or not he was joking. She hoped he was.

"There are labs full of drugs upstairs." Molly countered, wishing she could stop her words. His mouth twitched into a small smile, as though he appreciated her awkward utterances.

"Was that an offer?" he asked, still smirking.  
>"Definitely not." She swallowed, "What about nicotine patches?"<p>

"What about them?"

"Why don't you give them a try?" Molly rubbed her cold hands together, "They're little sticky patches. Nicotine is released through the skin. They calm the addiction _and_ you don't get blackened lungs."

"Yes thank you, I do know what nicotine patches are, Molly." He observed the quickly vanishing cigarette before taking another draw, stubbing the burning end out under his foot. She blushed a little at her ridiculousness.

"Well." She sighed, "It was just a thought."

"Noted." He said quickly, voice lacking in naturalness. He spun, his coat fluttering around him. He didn't say goodbye as he walked off, though Molly found her own mouth calling out after him.

"See you around, Sherlock." She smiled, her voice laced with the hope that he'd turn around. He didn't.

Four days later, Sherlock Holmes was in the lab, this time leaning over a work bench, his body devoid of a jacket. He was thoroughly engaged in a specimen in a Petri dish, his eyes sparkling wondrously at his latest experiment. He didn't even notice Molly as she walked in, setting a cup of coffee down beside him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the arch in his forearm protruding as he fiddled with a pipette.

She noticed three little nicotine patches stamped up his arm, a subtle shade lighter than his skin tone. She didn't say a word to him, though a small smile crept across her face as she began her work.

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><p><strong>I just love the fact it was enough niceness that he took her advice, even though he didn't show that he would. I don't know...that weirdness sort of appeals to me.<strong>

**More to come soon!**


	5. Wounds

**Here's another little oneshot. Sherlock has an injury and Molly's medical expertise comes in handy. Basically Sherlock being weird and Molly being useful to him. Let me know what you think. :)**

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><p><strong>W O U N D S<strong>

He was sitting on a mortuary slab, facing away from her when she came in. It was only as she neared him she realised he was perched on the edge, surrounded by a dozen or so medical instruments, his white shirt unbuttoned the whole way down so his pale chest was bare. She was shocked momentarily by his brief nudity, her eyes cascading down over his bare skin, her breath getting caught in the contraction of her throat. He made no effort to conceal his body as she rounded on him, his blue eyes glancing at her before they resumed their original focus on a spot on his abdomen.

When Molly was finally able to pull her gaze away from the chiselled outline of his torso, her eyes found the real issue. A wound smiling its way along his ribs, the ruby red glisten of blood trickling its way down towards his navel. His voice, steady and unyielding, broke the silence.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

Molly rushed forwards, hands finding their way to cover her gaping mouth as she ran her eyes along the cut; about three inches in length, the depth unknown, but deep enough to still be bleeding. His white shirt, although unbuttoned, was torn along the front, the material stained a deep scarlet. Molly let her hands fall to her sides.

"What in God's name-?"  
>"You're in early." Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall, "I wasn't expecting you for at least another twenty minutes."<br>"Forget the bloody time!" Molly's language shocked even herself, if only for a split second. Her shock was short-lived, for she realised there were more pressing matters at hand. "Show me."

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself thank you, Molly."

"It might be deep!" Molly exclaimed, wondering whether she should physically retrain the man and tackle the wound herself. _No_. Molly knew she didn't have the gall to do something like that. Instead she sighed, trying to reason with the unreasonable, "It might need stitches, Sherlock."  
>"That's what I thought." He pulled his hand away, a suturing needle and stitching in his palm. Molly shook her head in disbelief.<p>

"You were going to stitch it up yourself?" She gasped, shaking her head, "Give me that. And sit still." She paused, "Please."

She'd never been the girl to be in command. She was surprised Sherlock didn't stumble out in protest at her attempts to constrain him. She wondered whether Sherlock was actually scared about his injury. Maybe he trusted Molly's medical expertise to treat his wound right. Or maybe, Molly thought in one of her more fanatical daydreams, he just wanted Molly Hooper close to him. Whatever the reason, Sherlock handed Molly the needle and thread and pulled his shirt off completely as she began her work.

She disinfected.

She cleaned carefully, her fingers making sure to not touch him too hard.

He winced and even, at one point, against all his pride, hissed when the swab of alcohol met the fresh cut.

She was knelt before his chest, her large brown eyes not leaving the wound upon which she was working.

"How did you get this?" She asked after a long silence.

"Would you believe me if I said I accidentally fell on something sharp?"

"No."

Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, "I suppose it is hard to fall on ones wit."

Molly stifled a giggle and remained professional, continuing to swab at his cut.

His stomach tensed, the ripple of his abdomen becoming more prominent with each dab of the swab. Molly's gaze dropped to the gentle outline of his abdominal muscles. She swallowed and began to look for a suturing needle.

"So you're not going to tell me how it happened?"

"No." He answered simply, "Does it need stitches?"

"One or two." Molly answered, her hand gently rising to his shoulder. As her palm met his warm skin, she quickly retracted it, opting for a verbal instruction, her face blushing.

"Can you lie back for a second?"

He did as she asked, one arm lifted up so she could inspect the wound along his rib. The faint shape of each rib was visible through his skin as he raised his arm, his blue eyes flickering shut as she stitched. He was sitting upright within a few seconds, inspecting the neat stitching Molly had executed along his side. She patched a small gauze over the wound and stood up, drinking in the whole of his body in one swift glance.

He spent far longer than necessary without shirt. He didn't seem to mind, or perhaps notice, that Molly was silently drinking in his body as he run his fingers along the gauze. He stood up, testing out the new stitching, the cool, clinical light blaring down on his already milky chest. Molly stood a mere distance from him, face to face with his bare chest as he inspected the gauze.

She wondered if he was going to say thank you.

He didn't.

"You should take it easy for a few days." Molly managed, the words sounding weak as she tried to regulate her senses. "Don't want the stitches bursting."

"I could have stitched that up myself…" He noted, arching his ribs away so he could gage the pain in his side.

"I do it for a living." She reminded him.

"On corpses," He interjected, "Who can't feel."

_Same difference_, she almost said before she physically bit down on her tongue. Ever so slowly he reached for his shirt, wincing as his arm tried to work it back into the sleeve. Molly took a step forward and pulled the sleeve up his arm, fingers moving to the stain on the front.

"Go home." She said quickly, "Take some painkillers; you're in no fit state to work with that injury."

He was on his feet in seconds, stalking nimbly around the lab for a man who, just a few seconds earlier, had been practically weeping with pain on the slab.

"Don't be ridiculous." He called back, "That injury _is _my work, Molly."

"I don't…understand."

"You don't get many volunteers when you need a living subject to be willingly sliced with a knife." He informed her, pushing a bloodied, serrated blade under the running water of a nearby tap. "Living subjects often have qualms when it comes to being stabbed."

"Sherlock," she narrowed her eyes, "Please don't tell me you stabbed yourself for an experiment."

The man must be mad; actually, genuinely, mentally deficient. Sure, the man was a genius, but Molly reasoned you could still be a genius _and_ be a few crumbs short of the full biscuit. You needed to be missing some sort of instinct if you could do that to yourself for a mere experiment. Sherlock shut off the running water.

"Problem?" He asked simply.

"You can't just do that!" Molly cried, shocked.

"Why not?" Sherlock moved towards her, "I gave myself permission."

She soon realised this argument was going to prove pointless. She couldn't argue with Sherlock that self-harm, whether for an experiment or not, simply wasn't normal.

Now she was half an hour behind her work all because she had to stitch up the sodding self-inflicted cut of a mad man who insists on using her apparatus for his debauched schemes. She shook her head angrily. A small smirk crept across Sherlock's face. One that made Molly want to slap him straight across the cheeks.

If only she wasn't too besotted with those cheekbones.

"I need to get on with my work." Molly breathed, turning back to her files on the side.

Sherlock ran a hand down his shirt and sat down at the computer, logging his findings. He'd never had a person care about him before and he wasn't sure if he liked it. He'd had his mother, sure, but other than that most people thought of him as an arrogant shit too much to ever care whether he lived or died.

Lestrade cared about him mostly because of his expertise.

Mycroft cared for him only when he wanted something done.

Molly, he saw, cared for him most of the time and, surprisingly, she never got anything out of it. He wondered why a woman would do such a thing.

Sherlock logged this on his blog before typing up the findings he'd found about blood and self-inflicted wounds. He wondered how long Molly would stay angry at him for. He didn't care, really, he just fancied guessing. As though she could read his thoughts her voice cut across the lab.

"Coffee?"

Fifty seconds. He noted.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, Sherlock is a tad odd. That doesn't need explaining. Will post the next oneshot soon. It's involves a much cuter glimpse of Sherlock; an oxymoron if ever I heard one. Don't worry, it's still in character. I will post it soon, my lovely readers (:<strong>

**Thanks guyz.**


	6. Umbrella

**This seems more cute than the others. It's not, I just think there's a glitter of Sherlolly in it. Rain, umbrella's and saving Molly Hooper; that's all you need to know!**

**Enjoy.**

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><p><strong>U M B R E L L A<strong>

It was raining again. She'd got to the hospital soaked to the skin and left just as she was dry, just to be sodden again by yet another torrential downpour. She waited at the doorway to the hospital in some hope that maybe it would stop so she could make her way to the main road without contracting hypothermia. Even under the concrete awning of the doorway the rain was blowing on her face. She began to button her coat up around her neck, tying her hair in an unattractive bun on the top of her head; anything to minimalise the soakage.

"You should really invest in an umbrella, you know." His voice cut from behind her, "Much more effective than an upturned coat collar."

Molly noted the hypocrisy as he stood beside her; the large collar of his long black jacket was up around his neck, brushing the side of his face.

"I have many umbrellas." She informed him, adjusting the strap on her bag.

"Do you know it rains on average 150 days out of the year in London?" He said, looking out onto the grey street. The streetlights were burning a bright amber, even though it still was technically daylight. "And it seems that these 150 days are the ones on which you _coincidentally_ forget your umbrella."

"I suppose I'm just forgetful." Molly said quietly. Sherlock shrugged and licked his lip.

"Yes. Luckily I'm not." He suddenly produced a large golf umbrella from behind his back, "That's why I come well prepared."

She didn't quite understand what he was insinuating. Did he want her to share his umbrella? Walk along like they were some sort of courting couple, romantically, yet foolishly, strolling in the middle of a typhoon? Yet again her mouth preceded her thoughts.

"I only have a short walk to the main road." She said suddenly, blushing at the confused look he shot her.

"I wasn't offering." He said bluntly. Molly eyed him for a further couple of seconds, trying to work out whether or not he was joking. She couldn't read the man at the best of times, let alone now.

"Oh." Molly sniffed, cuddling further inside her coat, "Well it seems like it's easing off. I might as well make a dash for it."

"I was j-" Sherlock started, before Molly cut him off.  
>"I'll see you soon."<p>

"I'll give it twenty seconds." He said, almost to himself. Molly took the opportunity to leave, dashing down the road.

As though on cue, twenty seconds later, another downpour released from the heavens, soaking even through her coat so it stuck to her skin. Her hair plastered to her head, large droplets running down her face. She was aware she looked ridiculous, but she kept walking, faster and faster, her eyes scanning the darkening road for the orange beacon of a taxi. Nothing. She saw it was useless trying to shield herself from the rain, and just stood on the edge of the kerb on her tiptoes, peeking up the road for any sign of a cab to hail.

Absolutely nothing.

"I told you; twenty seconds." His voice made her jump, a small squeal of fright peeping from her mouth. She spun to face him, shielded by his large umbrella, not a speck of water apparent anywhere about him.

"So you're a meteorologist as well as a detective?"

"No. I just saw the clouds." He cocked his head at her, drinking in her dishevelled, wet frame as she stood sadly on the kerb, "Are you going to get under or not?"

"I thought you weren't offering?"

As she said it, Sherlock grabbed her by the arm, tugging her rather harshly away from the edge of the kerb. He pulled her violently into him, causing her to hang onto his coat for dear life as they stumbled backwards just as a bus drove through a large puddle, causing a tidal wave of brown water to fly spectacularly up into the air. It hit the top of the umbrella in a beautiful beat, her nails clawing into his jacket as she attempted to protect herself.

He coughed. She realised she was still nestled into him, perhaps for longer than necessary. She had no idea how long she'd been there, clinging to his coat with her head nuzzled into his scarf.

"Sorry." She backed away, and he looked at the ground embarrassedly still holding the umbrella aloft.

"No, it's quite alright." He nodded towards her, "I think it saved you getting wetter than you already were."

"Yes." She stepped tentatively away from the puddle. She was just about to ask if she might be able to wait under his umbrella, when Sherlock suddenly stuck his hand out rather abruptly, a passing cab swerving gracefully through the puddle to stop beside them. She half-expected him to barrel in without so much as a goodbye, leaving her high and not so dry on the kerb.

"Get in before you catch your death, Molly."

"You've probably got more important matters to deal with; you take it." Molly cursed herself for being so bloody polite all the time. Here she was, standing like a drowned rat in the middle of London, and she was offering her cab to a man who probably wouldn't even say thank you. Molly sighed to herself; she felt she owed it to him as he had saved her from yet another soaking.

"Yes I do." He said swiftly, "Though I'd prefer it if you didn't get pneumonia." He paused, "Nobody else would let me into the lab you know."

She blinked at him. It was a sort of backhanded compliment. She almost smiled but he interrupted.

"Get in the cab, Molly." He said, sternly. She did as she was told and leant out of the door before she closed it.

"Molly?" His voice caught her before she slammed it shut, "There's a delightful TV programme on in the morning, you know. It's called the weather forecast."

"Thanks." She said simply before slamming the door shut on him. She reminded herself she must check it out.

* * *

><p><strong>See what I mean? Kinda cute, but kind of not. Oh the dynamic's of Sherlock; forever a mystery! Hope you liked that one. I have a couple more I think before I start some after Sherlock meets John. I don't know, I'll see if any idea's come to mind.<strong>

**Remember, I'm always looking out for requests and prompts so if you think of anything, please let me know :)**

**Thanks again!**


	7. Playing Along

**I was in two minds about submitting this one, purely because I like the idea's of _glitters_ of Sherlolly. I suppose this does glitter at Sherlolly, but it's a bit more full on. I dunno. Because these one-shots were missing a kiss I had to write it. Let me know what you think :)**

* * *

><p><strong>P L A Y I N G A L O N G<strong>

"I need your help. Do you ever answer your phone? I've been ringing it all morning." Sherlock Holmes bounded through the door, Molly dropping her stack of folders in surprise. She sprung to her feet, before dropping to her knee's to collect the folders back into her arms.

"I've been working all morning. And…and all the paperwork has gone through for the bodies, Sherlock." She stammered, "I can't get any back out I'm already in enough trouble-" She halted, "How do you have my number?"

He looked at her as though it was the must stupid question in the world. He didn't dignify it with an answer.

"No, no." He shook his head and waved his hand at her rudely as he paced agitatedly up and down the lab, "I don't need a body. Well. Not exactly."

"Oh." Molly paused for a second, "The computer?"

"No." Sherlock sighed and furrowed his brow, "Take your hair down."

"What?" Molly's mouth parted as he took a step closer, his hand pulling the grips from her hair so it began to fall loosely over her shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"Quickly, she'll be here any second." Sherlock urged, taking the stack of books out of Molly's arms. Molly's hands began to untie her hair at his request, her face contorted in confusion.

"What, why?" Molly run a hand through her locks, "Who will be here?"

Sherlock took a step back to observe her for a moment. "Right, now take off your lab coat."

"I beg your pardon?" She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Come on, come on." His hands found the back of her jacket, tugging it off her shoulders slightly. When she was standing there in her blouse and skirt she looked up with an aggravated expression at him.

"What are you doing?" She breathed, anger tinting her voice.

"There's this doctor." Sherlock said embarrassedly, still pacing, as though he had more things to remember, "She's been following me."

"Following you?" Molly repeated, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Yes that's what I said." Sherlock cast a look at her, "She's been sending me letters and texts. I need it to stop."

"Why?" Molly cocked her head, "She's just interested in you."

"Well I'm not _interested_ in her." Sherlock snapped back. He ran his eyes down Molly's body and took a step towards her. His hands found the top button of her blouse. Molly felt her blood freeze under his touch as he slowly unbuttoned the first two buttons on her shirt so her chest was peeking slightly from underneath.

She didn't have to stamina to ask why he felt the need to do something she could have done herself.

"And you need my help?" She breathed, feeling giddy as his hands left her blouse. Sherlock filtered through his pocket before producing two gold plated wedding rings which rolled about in his palm.

"Here." He handed her the smaller of the two, "Put it on your ring finger."

He slipped the other on his left hand and admired it for a fraction of a second before turning back to Molly.

"You need to follow my lead, Molly." He instructed, "Whatever I do, just play along."

There was too much information to process for Molly Hooper. She'd always been a terrible liar and a bloody god-awful actress. And here Sherlock Holmes was, directing her for a part she wasn't even sure she was playing. She shook her head.

"What am I supposed to be doing?" She asked, her heart beating a mile a minute behind her ribs. Sherlock's eyes darted towards the door to her lab, his hands quickly finding Molly Hooper's wrists as he pushed her gently against the counter.

"No time to explain." He whispered, eyes not leaving the door, "Just play along."

With that Sherlock Holmes pressed his mouth flush against Molly's, no intimacy, just a straight kiss to the mouth. Molly was sure she was dead. She couldn't feel her heart and if Sherlock's hands hadn't been holding her about the waist she was sure she'd be on the floor. So that was that. She'd died; it was the only logical explanation for Sherlock Holmes kissing her. Then, as though she'd been stabbed with adrenaline, her heart picked up pace, fitting angrily behind her ribs. The door to the lab swung open at the very moment his mouth met hers and the kiss was over within seconds.

"Oh." A voice chimed from the doorway. Sherlock pulled away from Molly, his arm still hanging loosely to her waist.

A young blonde woman stood in the doorway, her body zipped into a tight cream dress while her long blonde hair hung in delicate waves down her back. She wore red accessories and had painted a matching ruby on her lips. She was stunning. Molly paused and looked towards Sherlock, heart threatening to tangle itself in her throat as he ran a thumb over his glistening lip.

"The door said Doctor Holmes." The woman looked at the floor, her face blushing violently. Her big blue eyes were glossing with the threat of tears.

"Ah yes." Sherlock stepped forward. His face was transformed into a blinding smile, as though he'd simply unzipped himself from his own body and changed into a completely different person's skin. He coaxed the blonde woman nearer, "Doctor Stone, this is Doctor Holmes." He pulled Molly by the arm towards the blonde, "My wife."

"Wife?" Doctor Stone ran a hand through her long blonde hair and held a hand out politely towards Molly. She'd taken the words right out of Molly's mouth. The blonde swallowed; she looked as though her heart was breaking into a million pieces within her chest.

"Yes." Sherlock nudged Molly in the small of her back, "Two years and what, three months is it?"

"Yes." Molly managed. _What in God's name was he playing at?_

"Sherlock didn't tell me he was married." Doctor Stone admitted, her eyes casting to the detective, "I…suppose I should leave you two alone, then."

"Oh well if you insist." Sherlock held the door open for the young blonde, "Glad you two could finally meet."

Doctor Stone made her goodbyes brief; Molly was sure if she'd stayed a moment longer she'd have burst into tears and that would have been embarrassing for all concerned. The pair stood in silence for a while, Sherlock pulling the wedding ring from his finger.

"You changed the name on my door." Molly said after a while.

"Hooper and Holmes are only three letters apart." Sherlock pointed out, "I need that ring back before their owners notice they're missing."

Molly handed the ring back as though it was on fire.

"That poor woman…" Molly sighed. She knew full well what it was like to be on the end of a Sherlock induced heartache, but that was truly a kick in the teeth for Doctor Stone.

"Shock tactic." Sherlock said simply, "It couldn't carry on. Anyway, it seemed to do the trick, wouldn't you agree?"

"Why didn't you just tell her you weren't interested instead of getting me to…do that?" Molly sighed as Sherlock shrugged.

"Seemed more fun this way."

"Fun? That woman is heartbroken." Molly cried, pointing towards the door.

"Don't be dull." Sherlock reprimanded sternly, "She would have been heartbroken however I told her."

Molly's eyes flickered to Sherlock's chin and she bit back a smile.

"You've got lipstick on your…" she motioned towards her mouth. Sherlock ran a hand over his lips, pink lipstick smearing across his palm. He almost blushed, before he wiped a hand on a handkerchief and looked embarrassedly at the floor.

"Well for a role you had about five seconds to rehearse for, you didn't do too badly." Sherlock said softly, not quite throwing a smile at her. Molly knew this was the nearest thing to a compliment she was going to get from Sherlock. To be honest, she wouldn't have minded if, at that moment, she'd have keeled over with the taste of Sherlock Holmes still on her lips.

"Thanks." She buttoned her blouse back up and reached for her lab coat, "Try not to spring that sort of thing on me again, please."

Sherlock nodded to himself and pulled his coat collar up against his neck.

"You should keep your hair down." He sniffed and reached into his pocket, beginning to type a text message frantically. She draped her hair over one shoulder.

"Ok." Molly managed, her voice catching in her throat. "I'll see you soon."

Sherlock nodded absently as he text not really paying much attention to her.

"Mm. Bye Ms Holmes." He said inattentively before he marched out the door.

Molly looked up after a second, wondering if she misheard.

After a minute or so, she assumed she had.

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, see what I mean. I don't condone Sherlock being romantic, but this seemed more plausible. In essence, yes I suppose he used Molly, but only because he trusts her. I don't think she minded!<strong>

**I'm in about 234567876543 minds about my next one-shot, purely because I'm trying to see how it could fit into the canon. It's not strictly OOC, but it's just like 'would that happen'. Oh I need to make my mind up. If you wanna see John's introduction I could skip it, but just let me know what you want :)**

**Thanks again for the reviews!**


	8. Flats

**Yeah I didn't know whether to skip this one, but I think this is my only chance to post it. If I posted the next story I have in mind I can't really go back to this one. Whether or not it would really happen is another story. I suppose it _could've_ happened. I hope it did in a way.**

**Anyway, sorry for the wait, please enjoy! And thank you for all the reviews and comments, they've been truly beautiful!**

**x**

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><p><strong>F L A T S<strong>

Molly and Sherlock stood across from each other, each hunched over a dead body, Sherlock peeling little pieces of anatomy from the corpse to analyse later. Every now and then Molly would steal a look up at him, his sharp eyes thoroughly engaged in his work. She handed him a scalpel.

"So you're looking to move, Molly?" Sherlock said, squinting at a piece of skin he'd extracted from the body. Just as Molly was about to ask him how he knew that, he nodded towards the computer in the corner of the room.

"Your history on that." He said, putting the piece of flesh in a Petri dish. "You should really delete your history and cookies from it, you know. People can find all manner of things about you from it."

"People like you?" Molly wished she could control her mouth. She then blushed a violent shade of red when she realised she'd also been searching for Sherlock Holmes last night on that same computer. Sherlock's eyes flickered over her red face, aware of what she'd suddenly realised, a smirk threatening to tug at his mouth.

"I only ask," he continued, going back to the body, "Because I'm looking for somewhere myself."

"Oh really." She wondered if he wanted advice. If so, she really wasn't the person. She was only moving because she needed somewhere cheaper and that preferably wouldn't mind if she bought a cat to keep her company.

"Well, I've found somewhere." Sherlock corrected himself, beginning to suture up the body, "To be exact I'm looking for a flatmate."

_He isn't…is he?_ Molly looked perplexedly at him, her eyes narrowing.

"You should put out an advertisement." Molly offered, not quite wanting to overstep their familiarity by assuming he was asking if she wanted to be his flatmate.

"You can just say no, you know." He said sharply. Molly wondered whether he sounded a little hurt. No. Not Sherlock.

"Oh you were asking me?" Molly feigned ignorance, beginning to pull the sheet back over the body, "We…barely know each other."

"Is that an issue?" He asked quickly, eyes boring into her.

"It is if we're going to _live_ together."

Molly liked Sherlock in a perverse way. She liked the fact he wasn't overly nice to her. He was honest to a point where he was cruel, but Molly reasoned that it was still honesty. It seemed his view on politeness was that it wasted time. In fact he was a polar opposite to Molly. But then again, they do say opposites attract. Even with this peculiar fascination with him, Molly didn't know whether she'd want to live with the man. He was probably riddled with habits that she would tire off after a week. Yet she still felt her heart skip a beat or two at the fact he was considering her.

"Don't worry." He sighed, seemingly dejected, "I can find somebody else."

Molly felt a little pang of guilt. She knew nobody in their right mind would want to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. Finding somebody that would want to cohabit with Sherlock would be like trying to find a chicken that wouldn't mind bunking with a fox.

"Where is it?" She suddenly asked, fetching a pen.

"Where's what?"

"The flat."

"I thought you weren't interested." He probed, picking up his coat. Molly shrugged.

"Baker Street." He said, leaning over her shoulder to watch her jot down the name. He was so close she could smell his aftershave. The gentle mint on his breath as he spoke again,

"221B."

_Baker Street._ Molly knew she most definitely wouldn't be able to afford it. Yet here she was entertaining the idea that _she_ might live with Sherlock Holmes. He moved away, leaving her in a state of proximity paralysis.

"I know the landlady." He told her, "I can get us a viewing at about 6.30."

He wasn't asking, he was telling her. Molly nodded, still entertaining this possibility. Molly reasoned it was only a viewing; it would fuel her weird obsession with the detective for a few more hours. She knew her bank balance would never permit her a flat in Baker Street, but she could always dream.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!" The woman embraced him, kissing him on the cheek. He took the affection warmly; Molly had never seen him lap up affection like it before. For a second Molly thought this may be his mother. This thought was soon shattered.<p>

"Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor Molly Hooper."

"Oh." Mrs Hudson ran her eyes down the young girl, "Lovely to meet you, Molly. Oh Sherlock she is a pretty thing."

He ignored the comment and headed inside. "Upstairs is it?"

"Yes right at the top, dear."

The flat was huge; huger than anything Molly had ever lived in. It was perfect in everyway; it was just a shame it was a little too expensive.

"The bedroom is through here." Mrs Hudson led them along to a large bedroom with a double bed. The three of them stood awkwardly in the room, Molly looking around for another door to which there might be another bedroom.

_Why do you even care, Molly?_ She asked herself. _You will never live here._

Sherlock nodded, sniffed and left, his footsteps echoing around the kitchen. The two women, now alone, paced around the bedroom.

"I've known Sherlock for so long." Mrs Hudson sighed, smoothing the bed down, "He was always a funny one. Though he's always been like the son I never had."

"I haven't known him very long." Molly admitted, "Only a few months."

"Oh only a few months and already you're shacking up?" Mrs Hudson almost tutted, "Never would have happened in my day, though it happens all the time doesn't it, these days? Young couples moving in together." She patted down her dress, "Still I'm glad he's got himself a nice girl like you. You'll sort him out."

"Oh no I-"

"I was beginning to think he might be a bit…you know."

"I'm not-"

"I'm glad though. You two make a lovely couple." It was at the choice moment that these words left Mrs Hudson's mouth that Sherlock decided to walk back in. Everybody blushed except Mrs Hudson who kept making the bed.

* * *

><p>It took ten minutes to explain that they were simply looking to share a flat. It took a further ten minutes for Molly to explain that she couldn't afford to live there, despite the money off that Mrs Hudson had kindly let Sherlock have for reasons unknown.<p>

"I've wasted your time." Molly said as they waited in silence for a cab.

"Yes." He looked down the road.

"Sorry." She managed, "It was a really nice flat, though. I'm sure someone will snap it up with you."

"Mm." She couldn't tell whether he was angry with her or whether he was just being Sherlock.

"I'll keep an eye out." She promised him, "For somebody who might want to share with you."

He stuck his hand out to wave down a passing cab. Without a moments hesitation he stepped inside.

"Who would want to share a flat with me?" He said bitterly, slamming the door. With that the cab sped off, leaving Molly Hooper alone on the kerb.

* * *

><p><strong>I figured if Sherlock didn't mind sharing a flat with John after like five minutes then Molly would have been a perfect choice. She obviously liked him so I suppose she'd have been a good choice. Damn her bank balance impeding matters.<strong>

**I think our old friend John Watson will be coming into play soon, perhaps the next one-shot. WAHEY!**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**x**


	9. The Plan

**I'm so sorry this has taken me so long. Even though these work as stand-alone one shots, this one you really need to know about Molly and Sherlock's flatshare that never was. However now I can start using John Watson in these one shots (hooray!). **

**I feel so sorry for Molly in this one. But I'll make it up to her in the next one.**

**Thanks for waiting!**

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><p><strong>T H E P L A N<strong>

Ever since they'd gone to view Baker Street together, Sherlock had been spending more time in her lab. There was nothing remotely flirtatious about it; neither did Sherlock show any sort of romantic interest in her. However, with the sheer amount of time they spent together, Molly began to wonder, if she could be so bold as to say Sherlock had _any_ friends, whether she was his only one.

The attempt at a flat share hadn't gone as well as it could have. Her lack of money was the main issue behind it.

However, like a bolt out of the blue, Molly was given a pay rise and her hours were increased. Suddenly she had money enough to move into a bigger flat. And she knew the flat she wanted to move into.

She wasn't entirely enthralled about the notion of living with Sherlock Holmes; she was sure he'd never sleep and she was almost certain he brought his morbid fascination home with him when he left St Bart's. He was probably messy and he was certainly argumentative. Though, Molly reasoned that she was patient enough to handle him. She liked him a lot and she wondered whether from a small acorn a deeper relationship could grow.

And so, Molly Hooper was going to ask him whether he'd be so kind as to reconsider her.

She was going to do it.

It was going to be awkward, but, let's be real; who was ever going to want to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

><p>It went wrong right from the get go. He looked at her with pleading eyes.<p>

"Molly, I need a body."

She just couldn't give into those large, blue paddling pools. She procured him a body and she watched as he lashed it with primal aggression, his riding crop coming down like painful rain on the corpse. She'd put on her lipstick, waited for a break in the lashes before made her move. His eyes raked down her body. He made a note about her lipstick, knocking her for six. She took a breath. She wasn't just going to blurt out her whole plan here. These things needed to be done with precision, especially concerning Sherlock Holmes. She was going to ask him over a coffee; make the whole situation much friendlier. It was only right if they were going to live together.

"_I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"_

"_Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."_

For such a smart man, Molly realised he was remarkably ignorant.

The second insult of the day made Molly Hooper wonder why she was even bothering.

"_What happened to the lipstick?"_

"_It wasn't working for me."_

"_Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth's too…small now."_

"_Ok."_

She really ought to have marched out in anger, stomped her feet or perhaps given him the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. Why was she trying to hard to share a flat with this man when all he did was knock ten bells out of her confidence while all the while remaining so irritatingly serene? Nobody in their right mind would want to live with him; well anybody who knew him.

Maybe that's why she should live with him; he really was never going to find another flatmate who'd be so forgiving of his bluntness.

Molly shut herself in the mortuary, hands pulling at her hair so it fell down her back. She picked up a scalpel and pulled her lipstick from her pocket. Slowly, using the scalpel as a mirror she began to paint it on her lips. The red tint clashed with the paleness of her face as she titled her head at her reflection in the mirror.

"Very nice." Molly had trained herself not to jump at his voice anymore. Instead she dropped the scalpel and lipstick at the shock of him giving her a compliment. She spun to find Sherlock standing about a foot away from her, head cocked to the side. He slowly bent down and retrieved her lipstick between his thumb and forefinger.

"The shade is maybe a bit too loud for you, though."

Molly hid the clang as the insult hit her.

"I wanted to speak to you actually, Sherlock." Molly stood up from her chair and rubbed her hands together.

"Oh yes?" Sherlock stood very close to her now, "About what?"

She was looking up into his eyes. Her heart flitted underneath her ribs. She had it planned.

All she had to say was that she wanted to share a flat with him. She needed to tell him that circumstances had changed and that she would gladly take him up on his offer.

"About the flat." She managed to squeak as his exhaled, his breath glittering over her face.

"I've found a flat mate." He said bluntly, smoothly taking a hold of her wrist.

She didn't know what to gasp at first; the fact he had actually found a flatmate or the fact he was holding her hand. In the end she just gasped.

Ever so slowly he placed the lipstick in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

"Just now." Sherlock informed her, "A doctor. We're going to the flat tomorrow."

"Just like that?" Molly felt the words tumble from her lips, unable to hide her shock, "You've already found a flatmate?"

"Yes." Sherlock let go of her wrist and furrowed his brow, "It was easier than I initially thought. I suppose flatmates are ten for a penny in London."

_Not for men like you._ Molly chose not to verbalise this thought. Instead she looked at the floor.

"And this doctor…" She swallowed, "They're definitely up for it?"

"I'd say so." Sherlock looked perplexed by her sudden interest, "And if he's not I'm sure I could make it so."

"Oh."

"You weren't interested were you?" Sherlock probed, looking at her warily. Molly shook her head faster than was necessary.

"No." She lied, "I was just going to ask if you found a flat mate."

"Right." Sherlock suddenly swept away from her, coat floating in his wake like some form of cape. He reached over one of the slabs and picked up a leather riding crop.

"This is what I came back for." He said brightly, spirits obviously perked after finding a suitable person to co-habit with. He gave the crop a sprightly smack on the palm of his leather-clad hands. "I best be off."

"Okay." Molly turned, her hand moving to her mouth to wipe the remnants of her lipstick off.

"Oh, Molly?"

She turned to see Sherlock waiting by the door, head tipped to the side.

"Don't forget to text me." He reminded her. Molly felt her heart shoot up her throat, her eyes sparkling with hope before he added, "About the bruises on the body. Remember. A man's alibi depends on it."

With that he spun and left her alone in the mortuary.

"Okay." She whispered to herself.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry Molly. I love you, I really do. But yay! John Watson has arrived.<strong>


End file.
